Fargoth's Bad Day
by Victor Delacroix
Summary: An unfortunate series of events involving the guy you meet at the beginning of the game. Based on actual ingame events.


Fargoth's Bad Day

By Victor Delacroix

It was a bright spring day on the continent of Vvardenfell, and in one small town awoke an elf, one unknowing of the misfortune soon to befall him. Fargoth was his name, although he didn't look like a "Fargoth". His face was small and his eyes were squinty. He was short for an elf, about five feet tall. He had messy blondish brown hair combed back so his forehead was showing, as small as it was. He was dressed in plain brown pants, a yellow shirt, and a green vest. These may sound like nice clothes, but in Vvardenfell, they were reserved for the lowest members of society (except for the slaves). Fargoth wasn't a very well liked man. In fact, the only reason he bothered to get out of bed this particular morning was a loud banging on the door of his shack.

"Open the door, insolent worm!" the voice screamed

"Just a minute!" cried Fargoth

As soon as he had his brown shoes on he answered the door. Standing there was a massive orc, over six feet, seven inches tall, wearing expensive red and black daedric armor with protrusions all over.

"Why hello...w-w-w-what a surprise! C-c-come in!"

Fargoth knew this orc, he had known him for two years. This is also how long he has owed this orc a large sum of gold.

"Where's my gold, ingrate?" shouted the orc.

"I've almost got it...." replied Fargoth "Just a few more days."

"A FEW MORE DAYS?" the orc roared "I've been waiting two whole years! Give me my gold!"

"I-I already told you I don't have it." Stammered the elf.

"Well, it better be here tomorrow, my patience wanes." the orc smiled "Or my blade will get a taste of your insides."

The orc kicked Fargoth in the groin area several times. Fargoth was used to this, as it had happened almost every day for several weeks. It seemed Fargoth would have to get the money that day...somehow.

Fargoth had an idea. He would visit the prisoner that was let off in Seyda Neen a few years ago, and see if he had any money. All he remembered was that the prisoner was an Argonian named Altair. He found the Argonian in a tavern near the Vivec arena. He was a large Argonian, bigger than Fargoth remembered, with green scales and bare feet. He was wearing a gondolier's hat and an imperial skirt. On his right hand was a strange Dwarven gauntlet. In his left hand he held an enormous daedric bow, a rare item in this age, with a quiver of arrows on his back.

"Hello, Altair, do you remember me?" Fargoth asked.

"Of course I do! You're that small headed bigot that mistook me for a woman!" replied Altair.

"Oh...I was wondering if you had any money..." the elf murmered.

"For you? Of course!" the Argonian sarcastically replied again as he threw one piece of gold at Fargoth's feet.

"Now get lost, you ungrateful swine!" said Altair as he kicked Fargoth out of the tavern, everyone inside laughing.

"That was a waste of time." Fargoth declared as a bottle hit him in the head and shattered. "This just isn't my day..."

Little did the elf know that the worst was just beginning.

Fargoth began to wander about, farther to the north, hoping the Imperials that guarded the ashlands and the Ghost Gate would take pity on him. As it turns out, he wandered a little too far north.

Fargoth kept walking, despite the stinging wind that had suddenly sprung up. Suddenly, he felt something hot near his foot. He looked down, only to find he had burned his foot on a pool of lava. Considering it was now horribly painful to walk, Fargoth slowed his pace considerably. Then, out of the dusty wind, came a figure, slowly shuffling towards Fargoth. Then four more...then five! He was overcome with joy, and rushed towards them as fast as his badly burnt foot would carry him, too fast to notice the true nature of his "saviors". He ran u to the first one he noticed and gave him a hug, overjoyed at his rescue. He heard a grunt come from the man he had his arms around. He stumbled back I horror. Instead of a a group of humans, as he thought they were, it turned out that these people were actually Corprus monsters, creatures that used to be human, until they contracted Corprus disease. He ran away from them, and fast, lest he become one of them. They followed him as fast as they could on their disturbingly bloated and scarred limbs, almost catching him several times. After about an hour of running, he came across some large, purpleish brow ruins. He decided to take shelter there for a while. As he wandered in, he was amazed at how dark it was, he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Luckily, he actually came prepared, if not by coincidence. He cast a small light spell, which he often used to light his home at night. Even with this spell, however, he still couldn't see very far, so he proceeded with caution. But as anyone in Vvardenfell will tell you, caution is not enough when exploring daedric ruins.

In the dark, far off, maybe from another room in the complex, came a sharp growl. Even though this growl was far away, or seemed like it, it was still rather startling and Fargoth was badly frightened. He kept walking, although by now he was almost running. During one of his steps, he noticed his foot didn't touch the ground. He had already put his weight forward, and down he tumbled.

Fargoth awoke several hours later in a daze. It seemed he had fallen into one of the ventilation shafts that most multileveled daedric ruins had. He got up, and tried to brush himself off, but it turned out that his arm was immobile. It was broken. Broken in two places, in fact. He had landed on it backwards, hyper extending it. This was assuredly not the best day of his life.

He stumbled around in the darkness a few hours longer, bumping into many large unknown things on the way. He ran his hands across what appeared to be a handle to something. He opened it. It was a door! He was saved! "That's funny," he thought, "these doors are supposed to be very heavy."

He walked through the newly opened door, but ran into something soft. He had run into an Ogrim, the largest and most dim-witted creature on the continent. It pushed him away, and he flew back several yards. He landed against what appeared to be another door. He opened it as fast as possible. It was the exit! He left the rins and wandered to a nearby town. There, he took the Silt strider home to Seyda Neen.

The next morning was a peaceful one, if not for one thing. The door to Fargoth's shcak exploded ina shower of splinters, and out of this shower, several glass knives flew and pinned Fargoth to the wall by his clothing.

"ELF! Where is my money?" screamed the orc from the previous day.

"No..." Fargoth whimpered

"Then die!"

Fargoth felt a sharp pain in his stomach. It was an arrow. A daedric arrow, which could only mean one thing. Altair was here as well.

"I remembered where this loser lived, so, after his little excursion to Vivec yesterday, I decided to drop by." said the Argonian.

"Well, now it's a party!" the orc laughed

"Care for some target practice?"

"Great idea! I think I'll need more knives..."

A sharp cry permeated Seyda Neen. Fargoth was no more.


End file.
